


Of Old Soldiers and Missing Wars

by NonchalantxFish



Category: Captain America (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, Family, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Magic, Steve has an affinity for Brits, Tom Riddle has trust issues, Two-Shot, also i assume the '&' means GEN RELATIONSHIP, i messed with the timelines, minor MOD!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10818678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonchalantxFish/pseuds/NonchalantxFish
Summary: There was a bruise on his cheekbone and one decorating his left eye, and his nose had traces of dried blood running down to his chin, and he had a split lip. But his hands, his knuckles, were red and raw, and that’s what made Steve approach the boy standing on the street corner. [COMPLETE]





	1. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a quick two-shot.

He saw him standing on the street corner.

He knew that posture, of course. Somewhat beaten down, somewhat defeated — but defiant and proud, despite it all. There was a bruise on his cheekbone and one decorating his left eye — ice blue, as opposed to his own softer cobalt — and his nose had traces of dried blood running down to his chin, and he had a split lip. But his hands, his knuckles, were red and raw, and that’s what made Steve approach the boy standing on the street corner.

You didn’t get bloodied knuckles if you didn’t fight back.

_(the kid’s a fighter, and for some odd reason, that makes Steve proud)_

“How’s the other guy look, then?” he asked as lightly as he could manage without sounding frivolous. _(all the while wondering nervously if he was being too friendly to a poor kid that probably got his ass kicked — badly)_

The boy’s ice-blue eyes swiveled to the strange adult, narrowing in distrust, and his voice was dark and dead for how young he looked; it didn’t feel right to Steve, this kid having a voice as jaded and cruel as a war veteran’s . . .

“Probably disgustingly pleased with himself that he managed to get two pounds from me.” the boy said coldly, “He won’t look so pleased when I dump snakes in his bed.” came more quietly; he’d seemingly forgotten about Steve standing beside him, large hands in his pockets and frown on his face. The kid himself was twisting something in his hands with all the ferocity he could, his pale hands tinted white with pressure.

Steve frowned. The kid was, what, 7? 8? _(he wasn’t that vengeful when he was that age, he didn’t think . . . but then again, if it were Steve standing on a street corner all bruised and bloody, there’d have been a Bucky right next to him, making him laugh)_

Maybe that’s what the kid needed. Someone to make him laugh . . . But Steve wasn’t really a people person, let alone a kid person, so he went with the next best thing: distraction.

“I used to get beat up a lot too.” he said conversationally.

He vividly remembered _(the day that changed everything)_ pointing out all the places he’d been, in fact, beaten up in New York to Peggy. She’d quirked a brow and asked if he was mentally-challenged in the art of running away — not in those words or format, but close enough — and he’d said something or other, sweating a little at the fact that he was talking to a beautiful dame. More vivid than that memory were the actual memories of being beaten . . . he knew the patterns, and saw traces of them on the kid, here. Punches to the face and jaw to start, to surprise; break the nose for blood, to startle; get him _(me)_ down for vicious kicks in the ribs.

The way the kid was slightly hunched and breathing quickly, Steve thought he could relate very well.

The boy looked up at Steve and quirked a brow. The kid had that pale, weirdly perfect complexion and dark hair that reminded him of Peggy, but the sarcastic, condescending disbelief was ALL Howard, and it made Steve want to laugh.

“You. You used to get beat up.” the kid repeated.

_(the kid probably had a hard time deciding whether to be irritated, distrustful, or coolly polite, and instead settled on curious and disbelieving — exactly why Steve started it out that way)_

Steve didn’t blame the kid, though. After Erskine’s super-soldier serum, Steve barely felt like that kid from Brooklyn that seemed to be mentally-challenged at running away. Being here, in Britain, in Europe, in the war, made everything before then seem so . . . far away. A “vacation” (Howard’s words, not his) in England seemed to ground him, and seeing a little brunette reflection of his kid-self grounded him even more.

“Yep. First they go for the face. Nose for blood, jaw for surprise. Then they hold you down for a punch in the gut, or get you on the ground for a few rounds to the ribs. It’s tough stuff, against kids bigger than you.”

“You’re practically a giant!”

Ah. There, a childish outburst. The kid seemed to realize it too, and his face tightened.

Steve smirked a little. “Wasn’t always, kid.”

The kid glared. “Don’t call me that.”

“What’s your name, then, kid?”

A twitch. Then a sly smirk. “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

 

…

 

“Wouldn’t an American soldier have better things to do than stalk an orphan in England?” came Tom’s cool voice, a tint of frustration adding to the perfect scowl on his face.

Steve shrugged. “I saw four older kids ganging up on an orphan in England. What kinda American soldier would I be if I didn’t lend you a hand?”

“A normal one. You’re not the first soldier to pass by.”

Now that made Steve scowl. “Maybe the first decent one, then.”

Tom smirked. “No, you’re trying to be a hero. I’m not stupid. Soldiers do what they’re told. You do what you want.”

Steve frowned. “I do what I think is right. If that makes me a hero, well . . . alright.”

“Bloody heroes.” muttered the kid.

“I don’t like bullies.” said Steve, shrugging.

The kid — Tom Marvolo Riddle _(what kinda name is that? not that Steve was judging, but he’d asked Peggy and she’d been confused, too. so it wasn’t a Brit thing)_ — seemed tense as Steve carefully wrapped up the little cuts on his arms and taped his bruised ribs and rubbed the blood away with a wet handkerchief. When Steve saw the usually occupied street corner empty, he’d started poking around the area . . . lo and behold, there was Tom, ganged up on and hurting again. Steve felt rage boil in his veins and had to ruthlessly crush the desire to hit something. _(he could break bones with light punches, he could tear guns apart with his bare hands . . . there was no way he could do something like that to a bunch of kids, even if they were snot-nosed bullies)_

Instead, he’d scared the others off with his best Captain glare and command, and was now trying to get Tom to stop being a distrustful kitten. He’d helped a cat like Tom once, all bristled up and angry and ready to claw its way back to loneliness rather than be touched by someone again. But Steve now had an alleycat fondly nicknamed “Sim” back home in Brooklyn and by God, he was determined to have a friend fondly called “Tom” here in London.

“Why?”

Cold, angry, distrustful, and most of all, hurt.

“Why are you doing this? You’re a stranger! You’re an adult! You’re not even from this country! Stop meddling and GO AWAY!”

Steve just worked quietly, silently tying up his own ripped clothing around Tom’s battered little body. He cleaned the blood and dirt away just as quietly. And when he was mostly finished, and two different blues met — one hardened with war, but still kind and gentle; the other wide and young, but still hardened with loneliness — Steve gave a small smile.

Tom stiffened at the smile, his face awash with confusion.

“Why?” he asked again.

“We’re comrades, aren’t we?” Steve replied easily _(he didn’t want to say ‘friends’ because it seemed Tom didn’t like that word, and it was strange anyways, a grown soldier being ‘friends’ with a distrustful orphan kid in Britain)_ , “Comrades help each other. Bind the other guy’s wounds, give him a hand.”

The boy’s face softened for a moment — in the instant, Steve saw all the kid’s hidden childishness, all kinds of worry and disbelief and fear and most of all, hope.

The next instant, the kid’s eyes shut down again and he gazed at Steve coldly and angrily.

“I won’t be deceived by an American.” he announced, promptly standing _(he wobbled a bit, he was still injured after all)_ and running off.

Steve knelt there, sighing.

Sim was a bit easier to work with. Then again, Steve didn’t think Tom would be bribed with canned sardines and milk. But hey — Steve liked helping people, even on vacation. And he really didn’t like bullies.

 

…

 

Steve liked animals, he really did. But slithery, sneaky things like Tom’s pet . . . they made him a little nervous. All he knew about snakes were that a lot of them were poisonous, they had forked tongues, and God apparently didn’t like them.

_(religious though he was, he didn’t think this particular snake was Satan, so he stayed very calm. very calm.)_

“And you’re sure it- she- is not dangerous.” Steve asked, keeping himself very calm.

Tom smirked. “Nagini only does what I tell her to.”

“Tell her not to crawl up my pants next time.”

“Snakes don’t crawl, you idiot. They don’t have legs.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

The soldier shivered as Nagini slowly wound herself up his arm _(she was a foot long, dark-scaled enough that Steve couldn’t tell if it- SHE- had any patterns)_. Contrary to his expectations, snakes were not slimy. They were smooth and dusty and it felt kinda funny when they were crawling on you or-

“She’s licking me.”

Tom let out a tiny groan of frustration. “She’s not licking you. She’s tasting. Snakes see with their tongues.”

Steve looked at Tom and deadpanned, “Sounds awfully like ‘licking’, Tom.”

Figures this would happen. Steve had an uncanny way of finding Tom, or so Tom said. First on the street corner, which he had never gone to before. Then being ganged up on by this “Billy Stubbs” and his friends. Then here in an empty lot full of weeds and grass, where Steve had seen Tom with Nagini and panicked. He did not scream when Nagini managed to slither up his trousers after Steve had ripped Tom from the ground; just as Tom hadn’t snorted when the nonexistent screaming occurred.

But now Steve was cross-legged on the ground with Tom sitting beside him, amusement flashing in ice-blue eyes as Nagini proceeded to scare Steve as soon as he was distracted.

It was quiet, for a little while.

_(peaceful, you could say)_

“You don’t mind Nagini?” Tom asked, pseudo-lightly.

Steve raised a brow. He decided not to lie. “Honest, I thought you were being attacked at first — it’s why I picked you up, y’know. I’m kinda jittery ‘round snakes, but if she’s your friend, I don’t mind her.”

“She’s a snake.”

“I’ve noticed, Tom.”

“Snakes are symbols of destruction and death. Of the Devil.”

Steve shrugged. Before, he’d be a bit disturbed at the dark thoughts of his young friend (that’s what they were, after all, despite Tom’s stubborn denial and Steve’s ‘comrades’ thing), but Tom was just a kinda dark kid. Nothing wrong with that, right? Loneliness did that to you. So did bullying.

“Thought passed my mind.” said Steve lightly, “Passed and left.”

“I can talk to snakes. It’s practically talking to the Devil.” Tom persisted.

Steve frowned. “What kinda idiot told you that?”

A ghost of a smile had Tom’s lips twitching. He shook his head, though. “Don’t patronize me. I know you don’t believe me.” And he proceeded to hiss something or other at Nagini, who tightened her coils around Steve’s neck uncomfortably. If he didn’t believe Tom before, he did now _(though, with super-soldiers and Hydra weapons, was a boy who could talk to snakes all that strange?)_

The soldier blinked at the revelation and the pressure on his throat. “Yeah . . . well . . . sounds like you have a future in snake charming, then . . . though I’d prefer not to have Nagini all . . . um, choking me.”

Another hiss, and Nagini quickly slithered to Tom’s outstretched hand. There was something defensive in his posture as he took Nagini back; like a frightened animal expecting punishment. Steve gave Tom a strange look _(damn orphanage, Steve could just imagine what happened in there if the children went unpunished after tormenting Tom like they did . . .)_. Then Steve smiled.

“Y’know, I kinda got used to her crawling all over me.”

Tom twitched, and slowly Nagini slithered back to Steve to resume her exploration. Tom’s reply was absent-minded. “Snakes don’t crawl . . .”

Tom didn’t look as angry or closed-off as the first two times they met, which had Steve pleased and willing to “play” with a snake. It was because of that, he figured, that Tom wasn’t yelling or storming off. Tom actually snorted — the incident they wouldn’t discuss, because Steve didn’t squeal and Tom didn’t laugh — and introduced the only friend he had in the world _(Nagini)_ to the only comrade he had _(Steve)_.

“. . . They call me the Devil Child.” said Tom very, very softly.

Steve managed to hide his indignation. Tom was an introspective kid; he needed to talk out his thoughts fully and completely before anyone else could get a meaningful word in _(Steve had learned a lot about his new, young friend — he was an artist, after all, and observing was in his nature)_. So he waited.

“It’s not just because of Nagini. I hide her. If I don’t, she’ll get killed like Myassa was.” continued Tom quietly, “But sometimes . . . things happen around me. Sometimes I can make things happen. That’s why . . . they call me a freak.”

Tom turned to Steve, his eyes guarded but hopeful.

Steve realized that to Tom, his reaction to Nagini was a test. He thought _(hoped)_ that maybe he’d passed.

“It wouldn’t bother you, would it, that you’re friends with a freak?”

The soldier smiled very, very softly. A boy who could talk to snakes and a man who could rip buildings apart with only his hands. “I’m kind of a freak, too, y’know,

Tom? Doesn’t bother me at all.”

There was a tentative, very real smile on Tom’s face when they parted that day.

 

…

 

“This is ice cream?” Tom asked, disgustedly.

Steve gave a nod, concentrating on not ruining more clothes than he had to. Ice cream was drippy stuff, after all. Nagini was coiled around Tom’s arms, “tasting” the vanilla scoop in Tom’s hands; one slip of the tongue and the small snake had retreated back into Tom’s clothing.

_(she did not like it)_

“Why the others waste their pitiful amounts of spending money on this is beyond me.” concluded the 8-year-old decisively.  
Steve laughed.

 

…

 

He stared at the snake wrapped around his arm. They were waiting for Tom, who had to run back to his orphanage to fetch something. Probably the latest piece of pride he wanted to show off to Steve. _(he’d taken to showing off his treasures to Steve, who looked at Tom with a raised brow. it was alright, though. Steve made_ _Tom give back all the things he stole, and told him to make things instead)_

Nagini flicked her tongue out, tickling Steve’s ear.

The soldier twitched. He stared at the snake.

“You’re doing that on purpose.” he said flatly.

_(she was doing that on purpose)_

 

…

 

“Kick-the-can?” asked Tom incredulously.

“Mm-hm. We need three players, but I bet Nagini would play if you asked.”

“Kick-the-can with a snake.” Tom emphasized.

Steve honestly just wanted to make sure Tom had fun. He remembered that he liked playing the game way back when . . . Tom would, too, right? Then again, it was mostly an American thing. Then again, Tom didn’t play at all.

Something Steve wanted to fix.

“I won’t trample Nagini, promise. I’ve got great reflexes.”

“My hero.”

Steve had to snort at the pure amount of sarcasm. But he saw Tom’s point. He gave a little sigh _(he’d get Tom to play something sometime, he swore . . .)_ “Well, I guess with only two people and a snake, it’d be hard-“

Tom gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “What are the rules?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me, American. You’re the one who knows how to play, so tell me the rules.”

Steve grinned, and laughed, giving a triumphant punch to the air before excitedly running down the rules of kick-the-can and throwing in modifying rules to make sure it wasn’t too hard on Nagini.

_(Tom wouldn’t play unless Nagini could, after all. and don’t get Steve wrong — he wasn’t afraid of the little black snake anymore, but he felt he’d reached an understanding with the little creature: make Tom happy, and you’re good in my books)_

Tom gave a little smile. He was doing that more often.

 

…

 

He carefully wrapped her little body in soft cloth, patterned with the British flag. She was curled up carefully, after Steve had carefully washed away the blood and tried to piece her shattered bones back together. Tom couldn’t do it; not that Steve blamed him.

Billy Stubbs had killed his friend.

There was anger in him when he first heard, a heat inside his veins that just bubbled beneath pale skin and pushed behind horrified eyes. Pushed and pushed, and then he was crying — just a little — and he thought he’d come to London so he wouldn’t have to remember having lost his friends _(Bucky . . . always Bucky)_ and yet here he was. He couldn’t speak with her without Tom around, but she was Tom’s friend and thus she was his, too.

The only thing that kept Steve from punching something and hopefully breaking it was the look of despair in Tom’s eyes. Not his face, though. Tom was cool-headed and stone-faced, and he liked to project a child that felt nothing towards anything outside his own mind . . . but Steve knew this kid — Tom was on his way to becoming a little brother, though the kid didn’t know it — and he knew that there was nothing but grief on his genius-IQ mind.

So he gently pried the corpse of the little black snake from Tom’s shaking fingers and put her back together best he could _(he was no morgue worker, but he knew things about dead bodies, even if they weren’t exactly human)_. Then he’d grabbed a small Brit flag from some cheap little shop — it felt right, though all he knew were military funerals at this point — and now was blanketing his non-human friend in it.

Tom had already dug the grave with his hands in that abandoned plot of land where Steve had first met Nagini. There was blood underneath his small fingernails and bags underneath his icy eyes, but he’d done it silently and without complaint.

“It’s the least I could do for her.” Tom muttered quietly.

Steve nodded.

_(neither cried. they looked more tired than sad, really — the old soldier had buried his friends before, the young orphan had buried his emotions. neither wanted to cry. not anymore.)_

He placed her down into the grave gently and Tom buried her. Steve put down little, fragile bundles of just-budding flowers and Tom set a smooth stone into the mound of displaced earth. Steve backed away to let his young friend have a moment with her, and as he and Tom walked off he turned and saw the fragile buds had suddenly bloomed into a myriad of colors.

He didn’t question it, though. He had suddenly become Tom’s only friend in the world.

 

…

 

There was a scrape on Tom’s knee and a goose egg on the back of his head. Steve rolled his eyes and set to clean the kid up.

“What happened this time?” he asked, sounding amused.

Tom’s face was blank, but the depths of his eyes were cold. “I fell from the rafters.”

Steve frowned. “That’s a long way to fall. What were you doing up in the rafters, anyways?”

“Hanging something.” Tom replied; the response had Steve’s blood run cold, for no reason at all. “It was for Nagini.” whispered the boy, much more quietly. As if he wanted to keep it from Steve, but reluctantly didn’t.

The soldier knew something was wrong.

“What did you do, Tom?”

A flash of fear. Why fear? There was nothing Steve could think of that would scare Tom; the kid was steel, through and through. Tom wasn’t scared of bullies, or of pain, or . . . Wait. There was one thing the kid was afraid of, and that was loneliness. _(Steve knew then, that Tom had something he knew his American friend would disapprove of)_

“I’m not gonna turn my back on you, Tom.” Steve said gently. “Tell me what happened? We’ll talk through it.”

Tom looked at Steve, his eyes piercing and intense. This was another test, Steve realized. Not one that Tom set up, like the last one with Nagini, but one that was just as important. He didn’t know why it was important, not until Tom said something, but a kid with nothing but distrust and a dead friend on his hands? That kid would be cautious with everything now.

“Billy Stubbs’ rabbit.” he said, smirking. Steve thought it was an empty smirk, though. “I hung it from the rafters after I snapped its bloody neck.”

Steve felt that blood-chilling again.

Revenge, then.

“Why?” Steve asked, pushing away anything but gentle curiosity from his voice.

Tom flushed _(shame? confusion?)_ and looked away. “Why aren’t you yelling at me? Anyone else would have. I’m the Devil Child, after all, aren’t I? And you’re a hero. You should be putting me down like the beast I am.”

“Who said that to you?” Steve asked sharply. That wasn’t something Tom would say.

“Does it matter? You can leave me now, you know. I’m not a poor pitiful orphan without any friends. I’m a killer, now.” Tom spat, “You should’ve seen how the stupid rabbit squealed. And now no one can get it down from the rafters — I won’t let them! I’ve made them fall! I’ve hurt them-“

Steve abruptly silenced Tom by crushing him into a hug. Tom struggled and squirmed, snarling as he did. “Let go! You’re hugging me after I killed that rabbit, you know! Get off! You’re-“

“-helping a kid that doesn’t know how to grieve.” finished Steve steadily.

Tom stilled. His voice was muffled. “Don’t you hate me for killing that rabbit?”

“I certainly don’t like you more for it, but I understand.” replied the soldier.

_(and he does understand. the need to avenge the fallen, especially if the fallen is the oldest and greatest friend you’ve ever known. he understands that even if HE himself reigned in his bloodlust, Tom is just a child and needs a little help getting there)_

“Don’t I scare you?”

“I should be asking you that, Tom. I kill people for a living, you know. Nazis, of course, but still . . .”

“. . . Why are you doing this?”

Steve chuckled. “What? Hugging you? You need it, kid.”

Tom huffed. “I’m not a kid. And that’s not what I meant.”

“Whaddya mean, then?” he asked gently.

“Why are you still trying to be my friend?”

Steve swallowed. Here’s the test, then. The big one. Damn, if trying to get through to this kid wasn’t just a series of high-risk tests. Anything he said might close Tom off further, and there was only a few things he could say that would get him to pass the test. This was a war in itself, really.

_(that thought made him smile to himself, because when he told Peggy and Howard about this, they’d be absolutely furious that he didn’t relax during his vacation and absolutely touched that he went through the trouble in the first place)_

“‘Cuz I see a kid that’s hurtin’ bad. And I wanna make sure that kid knows there’s more to the world than petty bullies and war, and that it doesn’t hurt so bad when you’ve got someone in your corner.”

“. . . are you in my corner, then?”

“Better believe it, kid.” Steve laughed, but then frowned.

Tom cried into his shirt, and Steve rubbed small circled into his small back. They’d talk about Billy Stubbs’ rabbit later, but for now, Tom needed to cry for Nagini.

And Steve needed to be there.

_(he wondered, vaguely, if this was what a father felt like)_

 

…

 

_(he hurts so much that he doesn’t know what to do with all the pain. it’s why he kills the rabbit; he wants the rabbit to hurt like Nagini did when her skull was crushed underneath Billy Stubbs’ shoe. then the boy himself. he wants Billy to hurt the same way he did — and worse.)_

_(he doesn’t know what else to do but let the pain fester and grow and breed.)_

_(until Steve comes, because Steve shows him that pain is best let out through tears, just like how disease was released through blood-letting. then it hurts less in his chest, and more in his pride — but that’s alright, because Steve won’t laugh at his tears.)_

_(so Steve becomes the only one he’s willing to cry in front of. even if Steve lectures him on not killing or maiming small, fluffy creatures. it’s probably because the old soldier has a soft spot for animals — he’s told Tom about the old cat named Sim in Brooklyn multiple times.)_

_(he agrees not to kill any more small, defenseless, fluffy creatures unless they attack first.)_

_(when Steve smiles, he gives a little smile, too. that makes Steve smile wider — he has an idea why, but not really — and then they go get ice cream. Tom likes ice cream now, because Steve constantly gets it for them.)_

_(he still scowls at the cone, though. out of principle.)_

_(he wonders, vaguely, if this is what a father is like.)_

 

…

 

They had a photograph taken together.

Tom looks at it, his brows furrowed in displeasure. Steve nudges him, silently asking if he was okay.

“We don’t look alike.”

Steve raised a brow. It wasn’t as if that was a revelation. Even the blues of their eyes were different. As Tom mulls over this fact and pouts _(he would argue, because Tom Riddle doesn’t not “pout”)_ over the picture, Steve blinks and realizes.

If that isn’t a subtle plea for adoption, Steve doesn’t know what is.

_(so subtle, in fact, he doesn’t think that Tom even realizes that he just voices his desire to be adopted . . . which would unnerve Tom to no end, when he realized, which would be as soon as Steve spoke-)_

“I don’t think it would matter much,” Steve said casually, throwing an arm around Tom, “if your name was Tom Rogers.”

Tom froze.

Then he slowly looked up at Steve. There was a desperate hope in his eyes.

“You think?” he asked, his normally calm demeanor shaking with anticipation.

“Still keep your initials, though — nice, huh?”

“T.M.R.” said Tom softly, to himself.

_(he didn’t know if Tom was particularly attached to his name — in fact, he’d probably say that Tom was the opposite of attached to it — but a little consistency would be nice for the kid, especially since he’d have to get used to Brooklyn after a lifetime in London)_

Steve grinned. “Yep. I think you’ll like America, kid.”

The photograph was tucked into Tom’s jacket. “I think so, too.” he said. Then dejectedly, “But you’ve gotta go be a hero, don’t you?”

A falter in his grin. “Yeah. The Nazis aren’t gonna fight themselves.”

Tom nodded. Then that sly smirk came, that one that meant Steve was going to have a headache and reminded him too much of Howard. “It won’t matter that we look different when you marry Miss Carter, anyways.” said Tom, ice-eyes glinting with amusement, “She looks like me, and I can say I got my accent from her.”

A furious blush rushed up Steve’s neck and cheeks. “Hey! What- how-“

“You’ve got a ‘secret’ picture of her. Of course I’ve seen it. And you talk about her and Mr. Stark all the time.” Tom explained (as if he were bored), “Besides, you’re going to be my father, so theres not a chance in hell she would turn you down.” I wouldn’t let her, went unsaid.

Steve groaned. “You’re gonna be a nightmare, teamed up with Howard.”

Tom gave a vampiric little grin. “Bet on it.”

 

…

 

“I’ll save the world, then I’ll get back to you. Promise.” Steve said.

Tom still had that petulant, sullen look on his face. Steve squirmed; how his kid managed to guilt him without even a twitch of his mouth, he didn’t know. He was sure that Tom was going to be able to guilt him until he died. The kid was manipulative that way . . . and oh, how Howard would take advantage of it.

He sighed. “C’mon, kid, you’re killin’ me here.” He pulled Tom into a hug, which Tom protested with annoyed huffs and a little struggling — little enough that Steve knew the kid secretly enjoyed the little bouts of affection.

“You’ll come back.” Tom said, voice muffled _(it reminded him of the other incident, when there were tears and the weight of completed revenge in between them — there was nothing like that now, though)_.

“Like you said, kid: I’m a hero. Lemme beat up the bad guy and get back to you, yeah? Look at it this way . . . you’ll be able to say that your old man’s a hero when you’re in the U.S, huh?”

Tom mumbled something probably halfheartedly insulting.

Steve chuckled.

“Say something, there, kid?”

“. . . when you come back, I’ll be right here.”

He smiled. “Promise?”

Tom unburied his face from Steve’s chest and glared. “You’re the one making promises here. You’re going to save the world, then come back and get me. And then we’re going to find a way for you to propose to Miss Carter, because you obviously can’t do it by yourself.”

He sighed. Tom was never going to let this go.

“Now, go and be a bloody hero.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of a quick two-shot.

He’d made a promise. A multi-step promise:

_1) Be a hero and save the world._

_2) Come back and find Tom._

_3) Have that dance with Peggy._

It was supposed to be all very simple. Cut out the heart of Hydra, Schmidt _(because obviously cutting off the head wasn’t working going to work — “two more shall take it’s place” and all that),_ end the damned war, stop by England on the way home to pick up his favorite people, go home. He honestly wasn’t sure about the future with Peggy, but he wanted to think that he had a chance with her . . . and Tom, of course, was gonna be his kid. If he was _really_ honest with himself, he was a bit frightened at the prospect of _parenthood_ this early in life and so soon after the war, but . . .

He loved that kid. And Tom, in that small and embarrassed way, assuredly loved him back. What kinda fella would Steve be, if he abandoned the kid to some messed up orphanage where kids got away with beating on each other?

And Tom was _(possibly . . . probably)_ the mature one. He didn’t kick up much of a fuss, more like, it would be Steve fussing over him by himself . . .

_(Bucky would find this hilarious and tease him to death, he was sure)_

_(Bucky would_ also _agree with Steve that, yes, he had a thing for British brunettes somehow. maybe it was the accent)_

He was getting off-topic. Rambling, really; it happened when he was nervous, like everyone else. What was he thinking of?

A promise.

He didn’t break promises.

Looking at the ice before him, he thought he might hate himself a little. It was the most important promise of his life and he’d broken it in two ways already. And he couldn’t help but think, as the cold embraced him and ripped the heat away from his body, that Tom would hate him a little, too.

 

…

 

When he opened his eyes 70 years later, his first thoughts were of the boy that had been standing on the street corner. His second thoughts, of course, were on the softness of the bed and the unfamiliarity of the room and the baseball game on the radio that somehow didn’t seem right. With the rest of what followed _(they were liars, and there was something wrong. she stiffened — was she really a nurse? — and he ran ran ran-)_ Steve didn’t really get back to his first thoughts until later, when he realized the promise he’d mostly broken and the dance he’d definitely missed.

He was angry, he was heartbroken, he was scared, he was curious — it all overwhelmed him, how _different_ everything was, and how Steve knew that if he missed how all _this_ happened _(billboards that were apparently made of little things called “pixels” and electricity, letters sent instantaneously through tiny phones held in hands, clothing that seemed on the verge of shameful — or just plain shameful, really)_ he certainly missed the things that were actually important to him.

Namely, Peggy and Howard and Tom.

 

…

 

It was only after he’d visited with Peggy _(older, grayer, but beautiful and bright and he regretted many things seeing her eyes filled with tears at the sight of him_ ) that Steve realized that Tom would probably be alive. He’d been _eight_ during the war — people older than him obviously were still alive, so **_Tom was alive._**

Of course, Steve couldn’t rightly adopt a 78-year-old Brit right now, but he could at least apologize. And listen. And talk.

_(he wondered if Tom ever got another snake — not to replace Nagini, but just as a new companion, as Nagini had been Myassa’s successor. he wondered if Tom ever got to admitting that he did indeed like ice cream. he wondered if he managed to get good at kick-the-can as he declared he would, all those years ago. he wondered, especially, if Tom had forgiven him for those broken promises)_

He hoped Tom had forgiven him.

But more than that, he hoped that he could apologize in the first place. If Tom didn’t forgive him, Steve understood. He’d broken such an important promise . . . and brought to life one of Tom’s greatest fears: abandonment. Steve had _abandoned_ Tom, the reasons didn’t matter, because it was true. And after the way Tom had finally latched onto him and started to open up and smile — a real smile — it was probably one of the cruelest things Steve had ever done.

Intentionally or not.

He hoped he would be able to apologize for both their broken old hearts.

And yet, despite himself, Steve found a small grin forming. He was gonna see his kid again, and he looked forward to seeing not how much Tom would be different, but how much Tom would be the same.

_(because he couldn’t get the image of that kid on the street corner, bloodied knuckles and split lip and blue eyes shining with stubborn vivaciousness)_

 

…

 

Standing in front of the grave, he blinked. It was strange, Steve thought, that the most important people to him were gone now. _(his team, his girl, his_ _son_ _)_ Even stranger that the one he’d failed the most, the child he’d made stupid promises to, was buried in some remote _wasteland_ that he’d had to threaten people for; for some reason, no one who knew where Tom’s grave was wanted anyone to know.

_(like it was some dirty secret or something — that pissed him off)_

It was somewhere abandoned and quiet, and Tom would’ve hated it.

Tom didn’t like loneliness, and he didn’t like quiet — Tom was a genius, after all, his mind was _always_ moving. Sure, he liked bouts of solitude to read and think and internally monologue, but Tom was a curious person and he’d _hate it here._ And even though Steve had just finished re-burying a faded flag-cloth wrapped around tiny, old bones next to the grave it didn’t feel right.

Nagini would keep him company, he supposed, but Steve still didn’t feel it was right.

The flowers around were young buds still, like when Nagini was buried, and Steve gathered them and arranged them in a thousand different ways over the unassuming mound that was Tom’s grave _(it was so barren and un-personal and. . . and_ _cold_ _and it made Steve boil with anger, at himself and everyone else-)_

“Oi! What’re you doing here, then?”

The sudden voice jarred him from his thoughts and Steve whipped around, tensed for combat and staring at a young man with black hair, green eyes framed by round glasses, and a lean frame that was covered in odd, billowy clothing that Steve instinctively knew wasn’t a modern fashion. The boy-man looked just as shocked and battle-ready, though rather than his fists put up, he was holding in his right hand a stick of wood.

A stick of wood that was sparking at the end, and not burning.

_(he’d seen strange things, like Tom speaking to snakes, but it was still a surprise)_

“. . . I’m going out on a limb here and guessing that you’re that Muggle.” the stranger said, warily putting his stick back into the folds of his robes and walking forward slowly, hands held out placatingly.

Steve blinked, but also relaxed. “Not sure what that is, but I’m not here to fight.”

The man nodded. “People don’t usually tend to go to graveyards to fight, though this particular bloke here, well . . . I guess he had a flair for the dramatic or something, because I definitely kicked his arse in a graveyard.”

Steve snorted. “Tom probably didn’t like that very much.”

The other guy’s eyebrows shot into his black bangs. His green eyes widened, too. “He let you call him _Tom_ and get away with it? Bloody hell, man — where were you during the war?”

“Fighting it.” Steve replied absent-mindedly, still laying flower buds down.

“. . . On his side?”

He let out a frustrated huff. “Look, I don’t get angry quick, but I’m trying to mourn for my kid, alright? I don’t even know who you are.”

There was silence, and when Steve looked up, the man looked dumbfounded.

“What?” asked Steve, a bit self-conscious now.

“You’re Steve Rogers — Captain _bloody_ America.”

_(and wasn’t that strange, that the Brit had known HIS name first, rather than his title; people screamed and squabbled over Captain America, but they usually didn’t know who Steve Rogers was)_

“Er . . . yeah.”

“Mate, I think you and I need to have a cup of tea. The name’s Harry Potter.”

 

…

 

On the scale of 0 to sitting with the 30-something-year-old Brit that killed his son sixteen years ago, Steve thought he was at a 7 billion. Wizards and witches. Magic. A secret war and an even more secret society of the former listings. Voldemort and _Horcruxes?_

_WHY_ had his _child_ tried to murder a _baby?_

“I told him to stop killing small, fluffy creatures . . .” Steve said faintly, sipping at coffee _(he didn’t really like tea all that much)_ at a table that had been conjured from thin air _(along with a nice, lacy tablecloth and a full setting tea stuff and a basket of buttered biscuits)._

“. . . This must be a lot to hear.”

Steve blinked at the boy-man sitting across from him. The guy didn’t look 30-something; he looked younger than Steve, actually. It was probably a wizard thing. Magic thing. _(which made Steve’s heart clench, because that meant that maybe if Tom hadn’t grown up to become . . . to become whatever he was, then maybe they would’ve been the same age physically when Steve woke up, and maybe if they couldn’t be father and son, they might have a shot at being brothers . . . not that it mattered, because Tom was dead-)_

“Are you alright?” asked the older wizard gently.

The old soldier shook his head of his thoughts. “I . . . um . . . I’m not sure.”

Harry Potter gave a small smile that was very close to a grimace. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s not . . . comforting . . . to hear all this, especially from the guy who . . . well, um . . . offed . . . Voldemort . . .”

Steve honestly tried not to think about that.

_(what was good? what was bad? he loved Tom but then Tom had practically become some magical wizard Nazi and then Potter killed him. should be be angry at Tom? at Potter? Potter killed his son but Potter had really killed Voldemort, and was Voldemort really still Tom? could he have loved someone who became the very thing he fought against? why did he do that, anyways? why would he- how could he-)_

He gave his own weak, small smile. “I don’t . . . I don’t even know how to . . . how to start. My kid — Tom — I know he was troubled and I know . . . well, I know he had some issues, but he was . . . he was my kid. I can’t . . . this Voldemort, he doesn’t even connect to my son, not to me . . .”

He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. If he were honest with himself, he would have lashed out with anger first. This was . . . _this was his_ ** _son._** Damn the consequences of starting a fight with a magical that managed to kill Tom, because Steve had never been there for Tom but maybe he could avenge-

But that was the first thing he wanted to do, and the first plan was never the greatest one. The second was wallowing in his grief; simply curling up in front of his child’s grave and wondering why the hell Tom had done all that and if he could’ve stopped him if he’d been there-

But again, Steve knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do anything.

_(what kinda man was he, that he’d let this happen?)_

“ . . . thank you. For telling me, I mean.” he said, finally.

Potter’s eyes widened a little. Then he gave a sad nod. “You know, I’ve seen you before.”

“Well, I’m . . . I apparently have a couple museums or something.”

Potter shook his head. “Nah, not like that. We have these things called Pensieves, see; they show us memories. I’m not entirely sure how Professor Dumbledore got it — he was a brilliant old wizard who headed the first war against Voldemort, by the way — but I saw you with, erm, Tom.”

_(his son that became a mass murderer and a leader of an elitist cult of mass murderers. he still didn’t know if he should love his child. he still didn’t know if Tom hated him for his broken promises, and if that hate was why Tom became this Voldemort character)_

The wizard grinned, ignorant of the turmoil in Steve’s head, and pushed up his glasses. “Merlin, it was _weird._ To me, all I knew about the Dark Tosser was that he was a megalomaniac that killed my parents and godfather, among many. Then I saw the little bugger looking at your photograph together and then getting all starry-eyed when you offered to adopt him, and I knew . . . ‘cuz that’s what I looked like, I bet, when my godfather said he’d let me live with him. Tom was just a lonely kid that, well, only had one friend in the world. When you, er, _died_ . . . well, Tom wasn’t Tom anymore-“

_(he was a good kid. misguided. Tom was becoming happier. then Steve broke his promises and Tom wasn’t a good kid anymore. that’s where this was going, he knew, he_ knew _somehow that it was-)_

Steve slumped in his seat, understanding more than Potter knew. “I wasn’t the only one that died, you mean. It’s my fault that your world was torn apart-“

“It’s also your fault that Hitler and Grindewald went down, and the wizarding world was saved back in the 40’s; same as Dumbledore, without the Hitler part. We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, Mr. Rogers. No one — least of all me — blames you for what Tom Riddle became. Honestly, your Tom and my Voldemort are practically different entities.”

_(and suddenly it was clear, and there were no more swirling questions)_

_(different entities)_

“Thank you.” Steve said, tired and not-quite-happy, but accepting.

Potter’s eyebrows rose. “For my rambling, you mean?”

“For killing him.”

He dropped his tea cup, along with his jaw. Steve smiled a little at it. _(Potter was probably wondering what in the hell was wrong with this American muggle that seemed to be perfectly content with taking tea with the man who murdered his son)_

“Voldemort. You’re right — at least,  _I_ think you’re right. They’re different people. And if my Tom — Tom Rogers, that is — knew what kinda psycho Voldemort was, I think he would’ve wanted the bastard gone, too. Tom was a smart kid, and it wasn’t . . . it’s just . . . he _wasn’t_ Voldemort.”

Steve smiled, faintly.

“He’d have been horrified at Voldemort. Tom was too smart to do that soul-splitting stuff, and too curious about the world to try to enslave it. No . . . he would’ve hated being that kind of man. So, yeah, thank you. For freeing him. I’m sure that somewhere, the crazed murderer called Voldemort was just my son, waiting for me to come home.”

Potter’s jaw snapped closed with a click, and understanding and empathy filled his gentle green eyes. “He’ll wait a little longer, I hope?”

_(Potter hoped that Steve wasn’t going to do anything drastic, in other words)_

The old soldier nodded, and they sat in quiet companionship as the flowers bloomed.

 

…

 

He had missed the most important war, it seemed, sometimes.

_(only sometimes, when it was very late or very early or something like that, because normally, Steve was quietly proud of his WWII achievements, but sometimes — like now — Steve was ashamed that he couldn’t even save his own child from something as simple as fear)_

He had missed everything important, it seemed, sometimes.

 

…

 

Magic and wizards and witches was one thing. Aliens was a _completely_ different story. But Steve, as always, went with it and improvised and managed to scrape as close to a victory as possible. Saving as many people as possible.

He hadn’t been able to save his son, so he tried to save everyone else.

After the battle and the shawarma — which wasn’t that bad, really — Steve actually wrote to Potter _(they corresponded not often, but enough that they were beginning to be tentative friends)_ and asked if the magic-stuff that Loki did was connected to his world, or if he knew anything that might be able to help the next time this might happen. It was mostly to let Potter know what happened and that there was apparently a magic-wielding god.

Potter responded by Apparating across the pond nearly immediately to examine the magic and aftermath, much to Steve’s surprise.

_(he did NOT shriek. why did Brits always say that?)_

“What’s with the robes?” was Steve’s immediate question.

The grey-cloaked figure shrugged. “Nicked it from the Unspeakables. Thought I might check on your agent — mind control’s a nasty business. Just . . . don’t let your eye-patch director get me, okay? I’ve already got crowds of people calling for me to get into the hero business, I don’t need you Americans on it as well.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “More like crowds of witches. How many of your valentines were spiked with that pearly stuff?”

“Amortentia? Ugh. Love potion. Yeah, too many. I just wanna be a Defense teacher, is that so much to ask? Come on, then, lead the way-“

“You’re just trying to meet the Avengers. Admit it.”

Potter grinned. “Was that a _joke?_ Merlin, Steve, you’re _learning!”_

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, I’m an old man with old jokes. You’re rubbing off on me, sarcastic jerk.”

They walked in silence. Steve’s first impression of Potter had been kinda horrible, to be honest, but when he thought of the wizard now, all he could feel was gratitude. He was offering to heal Clint’s mind, for one thing — something he didn’t have to do, but would do anyways, because they were friends. He always let Steve stay with him on his visits to England to say hello to Tom, and even helped spruce up the grave — despite the fact that it was Potter who put him there _(which was probably why Steve, despite all hard feelings having been erased, still called him ‘Potter’ and not just ‘Harry’)._

But most of all, in accordance to the last one, it had been Potter who had taken care of Voldemort. Steve was sure that if he’d come out of the ice earlier, Tom wouldn’t have had the chance to become that monster, but if he did . . . Steve would’ve taken him down himself. It would’ve been his responsibility, as a father, to free Tom from that monstrosity.

_(Erskine said that everyone forgot that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own. Steve thought it was the same; the first person Voldemort murdered was Tom Rogers, long before that monster had that fancy French name)_

The grieving contemplation must’ve shown on his face, because Potter nudged Steve with his elbow.

“D’you want to visit him after I’m done?” he asked quietly.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Potter returned the gesture. “Anytime, my friend.”

 

…

 

“You know, you broke your promise, too.” began Steve.

He was sitting cross-legged in front of Tom. The unassuming mound and been piled with fist-sized pale stones stacked around it — somewhat crude, but Steve didn’t want to rebury him _(he didn’t think he would be able to)_ — and was bursting at the cracks with green clover. Budding flowers crept at the edges of the stone pile.

He’d come alone this time.

_(it was the first time he’d been here alone)_

“I don’t blame, you, kid. I took a long time.” he sighed, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “But . . . you said you’d been right there at the street corner, waiting for me. I just wish I’d found an old man sitting in London, instead of a grave. That’s all.”

_(he was sorry that he started crying. he hadn’t cried for Tom before. this was the first time he did, and he wondered why — but he kinda knew the answer, too)_

“I’m also a little peeved that Peggy and Howard didn’t come get you. I talked about you non-stop when I got back, you know that? I was talking the Commandos’ ears off, Dum Dum actually socked me in the jaw to shut me up.” Steve explained, grinning at the memory; Howard had called him an idiot. “None of them are around anymore for me to kick around for leaving you in England, except for Peggy — but I don’t kick girls — so I guess I’ll never know?”

He sighed.

“You wouldn’t’ve gone with any of them anyway. I bet you were angry when I ‘died,’ and blamed them. Sounds like something you’d do. I just hope you didn’t kill anything innocent and fluffy again, because if you did, young man, we are going to have words later.”

_(he dearly hoped that somewhere, Tom was cringing at the threat of a lecture)_

Steve stood then, brushing off stray leaves and dirt from his jeans. He smiled at the grave wistfully. 

“I’ll see you later, kid. Love you.”

 

…

 

_(he refused to go with Miss Carter, Mister Stark, and anyone else who tried to adopt him in Steve’s place. they tried to replace his dad, and he wouldn’t have it. when he explained it to them in clipped tones, they usually gave up after careful questioning. yes, this was what he wanted. no, he didn’t want to ‘try it out’)_

_(Miss Carter was the most difficult to get rid of. he actually resorted to his powers for her, scrambling her brains just enough to make her forget about him and move on with her life. someone should move on. he would stay)_

_(he would wait on the street corner every day. obviously his dad wasn’t dead — Steve was probably heavily injured and limping his way to London right now. he just had to wait, even when everyone else was impatient and done waiting. well, he would show them, wouldn’t he? his patience would pay off)_

_(sometimes, he thought he was crying. but then he’d stop, because the only person he allowed himself to cry in front of was Steve, and that’s who he was waiting for. so he’d wait. his patience would pay off)_

_(his patience would pay off)_

_(except it didn’t)_

_(or did it?)_

_(he couldn’t really remember. everything was gray and fuzzy and distorted and strange. everything was contorted somehow. wrong. and there was darkness and searing light and warmth and icy chill. and then he heard it quite clearly, as clear as rainwater)_

_(i’ll see you later. love you)_

_(he loved him, Steve said. he knew the waiting would pay off)_

_(he smiled. and he wished a little bit that Steve could see him now, smiling, because his dad always grinned wider when he smiled and it made him happy. it made him happy when his dad was happy. he hadn’t known before what family was, until he met the crazy American on the street corner.)_

_(i love you, too, dad. goodbye)_

**Author's Note:**

> I did it for the lulz.
> 
> Seriously, though, this idea popped in my head after reading a shit-ton of HP/Avengers crossovers.
> 
> NOTE! I don’t own any Marvel or HP stuff, unless you count my T-shirts.
> 
> ANOTHER NOTE! This was posted on fanfiction.net first, and was copied over afterwards. Not plagiarism. Dis me.


End file.
